Her foot, long and slender, beat impatiently upon the ground.  She looked up at him once, but immediately withdrew her eyes.

“Why did you bring me here?” she asked in a low tone.

“My dear Lady Ruth!” he protested.

“If you want to play at being friends,” she said, “for heaven’s sake call me Ruth.  You found it easy enough once.”

“You are very kind,” he answered.  “Ruth, by all means.”

“Now will you answer my question?” she said.  “Do you mean—­to help us?”

“Us—­no!” he answered; “you—­perhaps yes!” he added.

Then she looked at him, and found herself puzzled by the perfect impassivity of his features.  Surely he would drop the mask now.  He had insisted upon her coming!

“Perhaps?” she repeated.  “What then—­are the conditions?”

He bent over towards her.  Curiously enough, there was, mingled with many other sensations, a certain sense of triumph in the thought, it was almost a hope, that at last he was going to betray himself, that he was going to admit tacitly, or by imputation, that her power over him was not wholly dead.  It was a terrible situation—­in her heart she felt so, but it had its compensations.  Wingrave had been her constant attendant for months.  He had seen her surrounded by men, all anxious to secure a smile from her; he had seen her play the great lady in her own house, and she played it very well.  She knew that she was a past mistress in the arts which fascinate his sex, she understood the quiet speeches, the moods, every trick of the gamester in emotions, from the fluttering of eyelids to the unchaining of the passions.  And he had loved her.  Underneath it all, he must love her now.  She was determined that he should tell her so.  It was genuine excitement which throbbed in her pulses, a genuine color which burned in her cheeks.

“The conditions?” he repeated.  “You believe, then, that I mean to make conditions?”

She raised her eyes to his, eloquent eyes she knew, and looked at him.  The mask was still there—­but he had moved a little nearer to her.

“I do not know,” she said softly.  “You must tell me.”

There was a moment’s silence.  She had scarcely given herself credit for such capacity for emotion.  He was on his feet.  Surely the mask must go now!  And then—­she felt that it must be a nightmare.  It was incredible!  He had struck a match and was calmly lighting a cigarette.

“One,” he said coolly, “is that Mademoiselle Violet employs no more amateur assassins to make clumsy attempts upon my life.”

She sat in her place rigid—­half frozen with a cold, numbing fear.  He had sent for her, then, only to mock her.  She had failed!  They were not even to have the money!  Speech was quite impossible.  Then he continued.

“I will take your assent for granted,” he said.  “Do you know how much you require to free yourself?”

“About eight thousand pounds!” she answered mechanically.